


The Dragon Emperor's Favourites

by elzierav



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriages, Collars, Double Penetration, Gift Fic, Knotting, Light Bondage, M/M, Military Tactics, Overstimulation, Polygamy, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, Valentine's Day Gift, Wax Play, weird dicks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29427594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzierav/pseuds/elzierav
Summary: Intrigue and treason, murder and punishment at the court of Emperor Taiyang Xiao Long, as war slowly but surely approaches...
Relationships: Clover Ebi/James Ironwood, Clover Ebi/Taiyang Xiao Long, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi/James Ironwood/Taiyang Xiao Long, Qrow Branwen/Taiyang Xiao Long
Comments: 12
Kudos: 15





	The Dragon Emperor's Favourites

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SykoShadowRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SykoShadowRose/gifts).



> Some OT4 for the wonderful SykoShadowRose! Happy valentine's day!

The dragon always watches. 

As each strand of silver-streaked black is sliced off, bouncing off shoulders clad in richly embroidered silk robes to land on the ground with a sound of muffled thunder, the painted dragon on the wall watches. As the court hairdressers continue their tireless, meticulous work, snipping off the long locks of raven hair upon the imperial concubine’s head, the golden dragon on the wall watches. Its body concealed in artful swirls of clouds, its scales dappled with morning sunlight, glistening proudly as the Dragon Emperor’s emblem, the golden dragon cannot help but watch in fascination. 

“Your Imperial Majesty,” a voice interrupts the monarch’s thoughts, prompting him to turn away from the holes in the wall, coinciding with the eyes of the watchful dragon. 

“Captain Ebi,” Emperor Taiyang greets, gesturing to his commander to stand up from his kneeling position. “I suppose you bring news from the front.” 

“They are not good, your Majesty. The Atlesian forces took Kuroyuri this morning and continued marching south. Soon they will reach the Great River, that will -”

“Lead them straight here, to the Capital,” Taiyang finishes, nodding tiredly. “And General Ironwood? Is he still alive? He is a good General, one I’d rather have on my side than the enemy’s.”

“He led the charge against Kuroyuri with remarkable efficiency. Our spies say that even though their ranks are decimated by the silver fever, there is little we can do to stop Ironwood and his Megoliaths.” 

“Do you know what our spies also say, Captain? That rumours circulate that James Ironwood is secretly an omega.”

The Captain can only stare wide-eyed in disbelief, unsure of how to react. Male omegas are exceedingly rare, always intensely courted, coveted, and protected by the rich and powerful - and most certainly not allowed to parade freely on dangerous battlefields. 

“Y-your Majesty, I...”

“It is indeed hard to believe, and hence I ask you to verify it.”

“Are you suggesting I should… seduce him?”

“I am ordering it. If I am to officially ask his hand in marriage as an alliance between our two countries, my reputation will be dragged through the mud if it turns out the rumours are false.”

“You wish to take a new Empress so soon? Pardon me if I am overstepping, Your Majesty, but even though Empress Cinder was recently assassinated… what of Lady Branwen? Is she not expecting an Imperial heir?”

“Whether she is or not, this does not matter, for Raven has been repudiated from court. She is no longer one of my concubines, for it was found she was the one to murder Cinder, by pricking her with a poisoned hairpin. I guess you could say I wanted her out of my hair.”

The Captain lets out a brief chuckle, always surprised and amused about his ruler's sudden bouts of humour despite the solemnity and responsibility attached to his title and the hardships he's been through.

“I understand this can be a hairy situation, your Majesty.”

The Emperor's laughter melts Clover's heart, like rare golden sun rays through snow storms and rainy days.

“Her brother’s status as a male omega is too important for me to also cast him away," Taiyang continues, "but I had to order for his hair to be cut so he can’t hide poisoned weapons in it, as you can see.”

Peering through the orifices on the wall on his monarch's invitation, Clover can distinguish Qrow Branwen, Raven's brother and imperial concubine, standing amidst a sea of severed ashen strands. There is a bashfulness in the posture of his long, lanky limbs, natural and becoming of an omega, but there is an irreverence even in the way his back arches like that of a feline that refuses to be pet. 

This should be the ultimate humiliation for him, for his lineage, and his illustrious family as one of the most ancient noble bloodlines in the Empire, yet there is something unbroken, seemingly unbreakable about the light in his gorgeous almond-shaped vermilion eyes, their gaze almost incandescent as they stare straight ahead, straight through the wall, as if there is no wall, there is no palace to keep him captive as a concubine. Qrow has never truly been the Emperor's favourite, not next to his confident and ambitious sister, but judging by Taiyang's sudden interest, things might change soon, and Clover cannot blame his ruler, for he cannot peel his eyes away from the mysterious, mesmerising omega either.

“We are all very fortunate our Emperor has such a fine omega as a concubine,” the Captain comments quietly, cordially. "I hope this union brings good luck for the kingdom."

"It's true, we need a lot of luck right now," Taiyang sighs heavily, leaning in rather close to stare through the same, small holes in the wall. "You too will need a lot of luck on your mission."

"It is perilous, but I promise I will do anything in my power to complete it, your Majesty."

Heat suddenly arises to Clover's ears as he senses the Dragon monarch's warm breath caressing his skin, before a small, sound kiss is deposited atop his cheekbone.

"For luck," the Emperor says.

Legends have said the Emperor's benediction grants good luck, but legends have said many things, praising the good fortunes of tortoise shells and unborn ducklings and just about anything. Still, there is a tenderness in Taiyang's lips that causes Clover's heart to flutter, feeling invincible for a fleeting second. For there is a place under the sun under Tai's gentle gaze, and there is a safe haven in his kiss, no matter how chaste, no matter how brief.

"Thank you," Clover murmurs back, "good luck to you too."

And before the Emperor can react, his soldier turns around just so and drops a quick peck to the corner of his monarch's lips. He knows the walls have eyes around these parts of the palace, he knows it would be frowned upon for an Emperor and his Captain to entertain such a relationship, especially when Taiyang should be satiated with his myriad of femme and omega concubines, for the Gods forbid two alphas should seek solace in the arms of their equals, in the arms of anyone who can match them, confront and comfort them at every turn rather than obediently submit. 

They know that the walls have eyes, and it has been their little ritual, their little mantra through stormy days to stand close staring at something and exchange those touches, those warm touches, those secret touches, for they will not be allowed anything else.

They know the walls have eyes, and for that reason Clover must take his leave soon, forever cherishing the memory of Taiyang's lips upon his skin in case he never returns from his mission, in case he never gets to see the cerulean eyes of his beloved Dragon monarch again.

* * *

Qrow knows exactly why the Dragon Emperor has requested for him at his side. 

Qrow knows why he has been picked tonight, out of the monarch’s many concubines. 

The imperial concubine knows from the moment he is ushered into the room, then into the bed. He knows from the way the hard, cold, golden collar bites down on his skin. He knows from the way the silky, golden restraints caress his ankles, his wrists as he helplessly tries to shuffle amidst the sheets, to no avail. He knows from the way the alpha ruler’s lips map his back in the darkness, dimly lit by flickering, flinching candlelight. 

Officially, Emperor Taiyang Xiao Long, second of his name, the Sun Dragon, wants to punish his family through him, to defile the name of Branwen for the crimes of his sister. Raven acted out of ambition, flew too close to the sun and burnt her wings, but both siblings would have to pay the price, like two phases of the moon, like two faces of a coin, ever interconnected. 

But in bed, there is no Emperor, there is no Sun Dragon, there is only Tai. There is Tai, desperate, tired, his spirits as shattered as the moon and as moody as the rain as he struggles to defend his kingdom, to defend his image, to forget his first love, to forget that summertime, and move forward. There is Tai, tugging on the chain attached to the collar with a clink of metal against metal, eliciting a gasp from the omega. And if Tai closes his eyes, and the candle is but a distant, hazy red sunlight against his shut eyelids, the choked almost sounds like her. And if he bends down to bite and lick every plane and every angle of that lithe back, the sweat, the blood almost tastes like her. 

There is no Sun Dragon, for dragons have not walked the earth for centuries, some say millenia. Yet, legends recount the first Xiao Long king descended from dragons, and perhaps legends are not wrong. For Taiyang may not bear the shiny scales or the fearsome fangs of the mythical creature, but other portions of his anatomy match the famed features of the legendary beasts. Qrow has become familiar with it, with the feeling of the Dragon Emperor’s twin cocks slamming into him with violence, with inevitability. 

Qrow has become familiar with every difference in width and curvature between the two appendages, with every irregularity, every ridge and every spacing, every detail imprinted onto the slick insides of him, branded into his memory as if by incandescent iron. Yet tonight the monarch’s pace is maddened, furious, desperate, and the concubine’s mangled mind cannot help but splinter further every time each draconic ridge breaches him, spreading him suddenly and impossibly wider as Tai keeps plundering his omega, every strangled moan and mewl only egging him on further to tear orgasm after orgasm from his omega’s body.

Legends say the dragons that once treaded the skies unleashed rains and summoned storms, created life and shattered it to smithereens, wreaked chaos and order as they pleased. Qrow’s pleasure-addled consciousness cannot tell if those tales are true, but all he knows is that the dragon descendent is wreaking order and chaos upon his body and soul, molding every muscle and mound of him to his own liking, pushing his butt cheeks even further apart, oblivious of the thick rivulets of slick between his strong, tan fingers. 

Now that the omega is held open to the utmost point, Tai can sink even deeper, slowing his erratic tempo down to an agonising pace as each thrust buries his manhoods deep inside Qrow. One hard length after the other, the appendages slam against the bundle of nerves that makes every vein, every fiber of the omega’s body sing in too much pain, in too much pleasure. He whimpers, his entire body arching and spasming - but already, the twin cocks collide with his prostate again. One after the other, with that maddening asynchrony that wreaks chaos from order and order from chaos. And again, and again, in a broken cadenza like the pace of a beating heart. 

Qrow has been trained in the art of pleasuring his Emperor with his skillful hips, with his talented tongue - but tonight all he can do as the alpha uses him as a puppet for his pleasure is to desperately scrabble to get a hold of the bed sheets, barely managing with his bound hands, and to bury his face into the silky pillow to muffle his shouts. But the Sun Dragon will have none of that, roaring out before pulling his concubine upright by yanking the collar chain, drawing a long, hoarse scream. In response, Qrow can sense both his ruler’s knots swelling within him, his body finally sated after all the pleasure and pain he inflicted upon his omega.

Tai’s body is sated, but his mind is not. The twin knots are the concubine’s anchor, keeping him in place despite his mind threatening to surrender to the darkness... but the collar’s chain is the blonde’s lifeline, his horizon, his everything. How cruel is the irony - how little control the monarch has, despite ruling over one of the largest empires on the surface of the known world. How little control he had over Summer’s tragic passing, over Raven’s boundless and murderous ambition, over the harsh winter, the frozen crops, and his people’s discontent, over the enemy up North marching to invade his territory. He has no control, except on the chain and the collared omega at its end, the omega that he can hurt, dominate, cherish, and control. 

Still handling the collar in one hand, the Emperor reaches for the dying candle on the nightstand, crying out its last remnants of pallid wax that flows like liquid moonlight. There is control as he tilts the withering flame, pouring the burning fluid down Qrow’s shoulder blades when the omega can only manage a series of broken moans. There is certainty as the white wax trickles down, slowly down, inexorably down the landscape of bruised and battered ivory skin, along the arch of his back under the inescapable pull of gravity. 

The pain is searing, simmering slowly, but Qrow cannot stop the liquid from dripping down, further down as the alpha’s knots keep their bodies joined, as the collar and its leash force him to stay upright on the bed. His exhausted, choked, parched vocal cords only allow a breathless whimper to spill out between his lips. But even that caged bird song enough to reignite his alpha’s desire, savagely moving his hips in sharp, short thrusts as the ridges rake against the walls of his concubine’s overused hole. The omega cannot tell how long this lasts, time unfurls and unravels, and then the alpha comes again, filling Qrow’s bloated insides to the utmost point.

Qrow cannot tell how many climaxes have crested through his body, crashing and coalescing as a tidal wave of constant pleasure, constant pain. But now, even the Emperor is entirely spent, letting go of the leash to finally let his concubine bonelessly pitch forward onto the soft pillows. Tai follows soon after, face pressed to the blissed out omega’s feathery hair. The recently cut strands are somewhat scratchy, but he savours the scent and sensation of them, of Qrow, of his own, precious, unique bird. 

Still buried inside the omega to the hilt, the blonde is too tired to manage much more than peppering ashen hair with small kisses, trailing down onto pale temples, onto chiselled cheeks. Under his lips, the skin tastes like tears, and that tastes like salt, like metal. Eventually, he drops a soft kiss to the corner of the omega’s lips, eliciting a weak groan as black-lashed eyelids bat slowly to reveal sleepy, stunning vermillion eyes. And then Qrow kisses back, gently, languidly, only barely putting that talented tongue to sparse, almost teasing use - but it does not matter, for time unravels and unfurls, and they have eternity before them, and the moon and sun can wait.

Everything can wait, and time can wait, for now there is no Emperor, there is no Empress or concubine, there is no attacking army, court intrigue, murder or punishment - there are just two men, slowly kissing and mapping each other blindly beside the scented, floating fumes of the extinguished candle. 

* * *

Megoliaths are tall, proud, powerful, but their stench is foul. After the battle, the campment reeks of blood, of sweat, of festering wounds and rampant disease, human and animal both. This time around, the Dragon Emperor’s troops were better-prepared for Ironwood’s elephant-back assaults, luring the large creatures deep into imperial ranks before piercing both their sides with dozens of sharp spears. Not enough to kill the gigantic beasts, but enough to make them panic, causing their riders to lose control, resulting in heavy casualties on both sides. Now, Ironwood and his men do their best to calm and bandage the creatures, but the General knows that if their bodies and or souls are broken, he will not hesitate to shoot them down himself. 

But recognisable sounds reach his battle-trained ears, drawing him from his thoughts. Swiveling around toward the camp’s entry, he hears arrows slicing through the air, shouts, horses neighing, more arrows frantically fired toward a fast-approaching intruder. But he recognises the flag the newcomer flies above his brown steed and the paper scroll held within the man’s hand pulling the reins. 

“Cease fire!” he orders immediately, raising a hand as the shouts and whistles of arrows suddenly subside into silence. “This is a messenger coming in peace from the Emperor. Let’s see what he has to say.”

“General Ironwood,” the messenger greets with a nod, unevenly dismounting his horse due to the arrow impaled into his shoulder and the other half dozen more projectiles embedded into his golden armour, sign of his rank within the Sun Dragon’s army. As a sign of respect and trust, he removes his battle helmet, revealing a mess of chestnut hair and even, lightly tanned features graced by solemnly smiling teal eyes. 

“And to whom do I have the pleasure?”

“Captain Clover Ebi, sir. At your service.”

The imperial commander swiftly hands over the scroll, revealing the imperial seal inked in red at the bottom of the page. Quickly, James peers over the lines - but soon he catches the pained, glassy glare the messenger shoots him before his knees give way beneath him, causing him to collapse into the General’s arms like a puppet whose strings have been cut. 

For an instant, Ironwood remains frozen, unsure if this is some ploy or trick as he calls out loud and clear to his archers to take aim, in case the imperial soldier attempts anything. But the enemy remains limp within his grasp, breath laboured and aqua irises unresponsive as James pries an eyelid open and tentatively waves before his field of vision, evidently unconscious from the pain and blood loss from his injuries. 

James lifts him off easily despite his armour, carrying him to his own tent, beckoning his healers to the wounded man’s bedside. 

“The Emperor’s messengers should be treated with honour and dignity, but remember this man is dangerous,” he instructs as he places the unconscious man on his own camp bed. “Refrain from using anything sharp or heavy that can be used as a weapon within his grasp.”

“Yes, sir,” a vague chorus echoes his orders, mortars and pestles being moved to nearby tables to ground down medicinal herbs into a poultice for Clover’s wounds, blades being drawn in the distance to cut bandages to wrap around his injured shoulder. 

Through some stroke of good fortune however, only his arm appears hurt, the other arrows only entangled in cloth and armour and barely grazing the skin. As the healers scurry like ants, James watches carefully, a hand on the hilt of his sword in case the enemy Captain tries something to hurt him or his men. Piercing blue eyes scrutinise every slightest sign of movement as the nurses disrobe a chiselled torso, long, toned limbs, planes of symmetric muscle… and the General must avert his eyes, staring bashfully down at his boots as blood ascends to his cheeks. 

Instead, he focuses on the maps his scouts sketched out for him, detailing the fortifications of the city of Shion his army plans to take next. Shion is not the largest or wealthiest city in these infertile hills, but it holds a strategic position upon the Great River, that leads straight to the Imperial capital of Patch. Narrowing his eyes, James can visualise on the map where he can dig the trenches to hide the cannons to take advantage of the uneven landscape, concealing them from enemy forces…

“No one moves, or I break her spine,” a confident voice calls out, and James turns back to Clover. Somehow, the soldier has grabbed one of the nurses bandaging his wound into a tight headlock, her neck looking frail as a twig against his bulging bicep.

“Or you could let go of Miss Soleil,” Ironwood responds calmly, drawing his sword in a smooth, swift move that defies human perception. 

Before Clover can react, the hilt of James’s weapon collides with his elbow. Sparks fizzle down his nerves, causing him to relax his grip just enough for the General to move his arm and push the healer out of the way. Then there is a sound of metal slicing air - and the inside of the tent is tense, almost suffocating as Ironwood stands mere inches from the Captain’s face, the deadly tip of his blade pausing a hair’s breadth away from Clover’s throat with surgical precision. 

“You’re all dismissed,” James mutters to his staff as they hastily leave, still trembling from the incident that made them understand all too well their presence is a liability. 

Clover’s lips are so close, they have the scent of aromatic herbs just before sunrise when everything is still cluttered in faintly iridescent dew. Blinking quickly, Ironwood takes a step back, raising his sword to tilt the Captain’s face up, forcing him to meet the taller General’s steely gaze. 

“You do know it is ungrateful to threaten to kill a healer tending to your wounds,” Ironwood says sharply, nervously tying the abandoned bandage around Clover’s arm while still holding him at sword point. 

A gentle warmth radiates off the Captain’s skin, slowly seeping into the General’s fingertips. 

“You do know it is extremely dishonourable to shoot down a messenger coming in peace,” Clover retorts, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes despite his eyes narrowing in pain from his injury. 

James tries to keep his composure - such slip-ups do not occur usually, for his troops do not defy his orders, and the situation rarely spirals out of his control. He takes a shaky breath, teeth clenched in focus as he ties a knot around the wounded arm. It is not attractive, but it is neat enough, and it is efficient. It gets the job done. 

“Meanwhile,” the brunette continues, “I was only trying to get your attention, and hoping to speak to you alone. Unfortunately, I knew I could only do that if I managed to convince you your healers’ presence was more of a liability than an asset.”

“That was very perceptive of you, you Emperor is lucky to have such a quick-witted soldier. But why would you want to talk to me alone?“

“I wondered how you’d answer to His Imperial Majesty’s letter.”

James arches an eyebrow at that, unconvinced. Why would Clover go through all that, predicting Ironwood’s intentions and staying one move ahead, just to get a reply to a missive? Clover’s plan is an enigma, Clover himself is a mystery - and suddenly James’s racing heart feels challenged, confronted, and it’s not so lonely at the top anymore.

“Though I am honoured by his invitation to meet him in his palace for negotiation and his promise for a high position at his court if I switch sides, I don’t think I can accept it.” 

“Why not? Emperor Taiyang is a good man, and he would love to have a military leader and strategist like you among his ranks.”

“I’m already satisfied with the independence and control over my own men I am given under the service of King Nicholas Schnee of Atlas.”

“Satisfied, really? Within the Empire, you are allowed to take as many wives you can provide for, you know. At Taiyang’s court, you could have as many omegas as you please...”

“I don’t think I have much time or need for that.”

“Are you… married to your work?”

“One could say so. Tea?” the General offers, nodding in gratitude to a servant who brought him the steaming beverage in a teapot alongside two matching cups on a tray.

James could just dismiss Clover and escort him out of his campment with a curt, regretful letter to Emperor Taiyang - but now he has his enemy within reach, now he finds himself rather intrigued by his enemy’s vague goals and quick wits, almost managing to defeat Ironwood’s endless precautions when it comes to protecting his soldiers and staff. Now, James finds himself quite impressed, and he cannot miss an opportunity to get to know such a dangerous enemy, to uncover his adversary’s weaknesses that would lead him and his troops to a certain victory.

“How can I be sure it’s not drugged or poisoned?”

James takes a deep breath, then pours himself another cup. 

“How can I be sure this particular cup is not poisoned?”

The General picks up the warm container from Clover’s hands, sensing the hot ceramic almost scalding his fingers as he takes a small sip, wondering how that portion of the porcelain will taste against the Captain’s lips…

“My mother used to brew similar tea,” the Captain recalls, inhaling the delicately scented fumes. “But we didn’t heat it up quite so fast, back in Argus. Slower brewing helps liberate the fragrances...”

“We do what we can on the battlefield, especially since it’s said to keep the silver fever at bay. Our troops got that north of here, both the illness and the tea that’s supposed to serve as a remedy. I’m not sure it’s working though, but that’s the best we can do.”

James lets out a heavy sigh.

“The silver fever strikes every winter north of these hills, but from here southward it isn’t so much of an issue.”

“Do you mean Shion hardly ever sees the silver fever?”

“Only on particularly harsh winters… why?”

James suddenly turns to his maps sprawled across the table, his eyes tracing the messy lines of the city’s fortifications as he moves the miniature trebuchet, pinching the bridge of his nose in deep thought. There is an idea that springs to his mind, that he should attend to immediately, for it is his duty, his chance to win this battle, and nothing matters more, nothing else matters at all. 

Nothing else matters at all, until he senses warmth against his skin. Then there is warm pressure against his back, and he turns awkwardly to see Clover leaning in to look, perhaps pressing his torso onto the General’s backside for a little longer than necessary. There is a companionable calm as James moves about the pieces while the Captain watches, the genuine twinkle in his gaze growing as he glares at each tactical move. Sometimes, the brunette confidently reaches for a piece, a legion or a cannon, and their fingers brush, calloused but precise and gentle, eliciting shivers down each fiber of Ironwood’s touch-starved body. He has been alone for so long, and he is not sure how to react to the almost foreign sensation, he is not sure if he can hold back the gasps that threaten to escape his lips. 

“I’d heard rumours of your genius mind when it came to strategically positioning cannons, General, but it’s a delight to see it in action… but this time around, the cannons are just a diversion, aren’t they?”

Ironwood was so absorbed in holding himself back that the question surprises him, and he schools his slight frown just in time to answer the stunningly lucky or insightful guess. 

“Why do you think so?”

“What truly matters is the trebuchets… by the Brothers… you’re going to catapult the silver fever straight into those walls! What’s it going to be? The bodies of your dead soldiers? Their still warm clothes and bloody bandages?”

“I understand that you find my methods inhuman, but they are necessary, and I trust that serving one kingdom even in death is not a dishonourable ending for our fallen soldiers. If the silver fever propagates within Shion, it would be catastrophic. The city is unprepared. Their officers will want to avoid this at all costs, and hopefully they will quickly surrender if we stop bombarding them and let us advance south. This way, the conflict here will end fast, and lives will be spared on both sides of the war.”

“Oh. I didn’t consider it that way. Our Empire depicts your people as barbarians, but I can tell you have a certain sense of honour.”

“Such rumours must be fed, in order to motivate you and the rest of the soldiers to fight us off. I’m not surprised or offended you would see me as some kind of monster using inhuman tactics to win.”

“I stopped thinking you were inhuman from the moment you offered me a cup of my favourite tea,” Clover’s lips stretch into an easy smile. “Lucky me, huh?”

“You may have your own traditions to prepare tea, but in Atlas we usually have it with dumplings. You may call that barbaric if you like.”

As he speaks, drawing a small, amused huff from Clover, James reaches out to the servant who brings steaming dumplings in an equally hot basket. 

“Barbaric, but delicious, by the look and smell of it. Open up. I want to make sure this isn’t poisoned.”

“You haven’t let your guard down just yet.”

“I’ve stayed alive so far in an empire perpetually at war by being careful. I’ve been very lucky, for sure, but also careful, since luck never lasts forever.”

“One is never too careful,” James agrees as he is offered a bite from a different dumpling, pressed quite insistently against his lips by a confident, teasing hand. 

He takes a small mouthful, savouring the juicy meat and chewy mushroom undertooth, attempting to focus on the flavours and scents rather than on the strong fingers that almost touch his lips. Then, with his usual dexterity, he grabs the remaining part of the dumpling from Clover’s hands and carefully shoves it inside the brunette’s mouth, his heart missing a beat when a nimble tongue tip grazes his oily digits. 

He isn’t sure why he did that, other than because that’s only fair and Clover should get a literal taste of his own medicine. The taste is quite satisfactory, judging by the way the Captain licks his pursed lips before turning back to the maps on the table. They remain like that for a few instants, losing track of time in the darkening evening as they peer over tactics and strategies, exchanging relatively inconsequential comments over sips of tea and bites of dumplings. 

It is a dangerous tightrope to walk, not revealing any military secrets that can ruin their plans. But the adrenaline is worth the risk, and knowing your enemy is the best they can do right now. Knowing your enemy without falling into your enemy’s attractive gravity, taunting that gravity for the sake of it, just to feel something other than lonely at the top. James knows there isn’t much Clover can do to foil his plan of attack on Shion even knowing how he intends to strike - at least, if the General keeps the imperial messenger from running away in the dead of night and informing others. James isn’t sure how he can prevent that, but he has some ideas. 

“Will you reply to the Emperor’s letter?” Clover whispers closer than necessary to the shell of James’s ear, his warm breath ghosting against the sensitive skin. 

“There are a few other missives I should draft first...”

James is well aware this is one of the things that is keeping Clover hostage in his tent, the wait for a response that he can bring back to his monarch in Patch. The wait, and also...

“Why are you staring like I have something in my face?” the General adds after a while, automatically and carefully calligraphing his letters with ink onto paper. 

“You have a bit of food… here...” Clover points, almost bashful as his eyes wander across Ironwood’s lush beard.

“Here?”

The folds at the corner of Clover’s eyes crinkle ever so slightly, ever so adorably as James reaches for the corner of his mouth with his ink-stained thumb.

“Now you smeared ink all over yourself. Here, let me...”

Before Ironwood can figure out how to react, the Captain’s warm fingers are pressed against his lips, meticulously rubbing away the remnants of ink and mushroom away from his mouth with just enough gentle, insistent pressure to make him squirm. Usually strong digits, used to wielding weapons and breaking spines even bare-handed, brush his beard with utmost delicateness. The General inhales sharply, audibly, and then Clover’s hand pauses. But it does not draw away. There is a sudden tension in the air, thick, heated, as rich as the flavour of tea that’s slowly, slowly brewed. There are a million doubts, a million possible paths that all converge to a rushed, murmured question, but that means more than a thousand words.

“.. May I?” Clover mutters under his breath, teal eyes meeting irises as deeply blue as the sky in summer evenings before the storm rises. 

James swallows thickly as he nods, still keenly aware of the steady contact of calloused fingertips against his mouth. 

“Please do.”

There is a silence, and their lips meet. Somehow, they meet halfway. Halfway through the silence, through the darkness under desperately shut eyelids, through the million doubts and possibilities until the only way is forward, and they cannot stop, and they will not stop. The kiss is devouring, all-consuming, as intense as the battle of wits that preceded, yet as gentle as each timid stolen touch and teasing glance. Familiar spices saturate James’s taste buds, but he is relentless, leaving no corner unmapped as he charters Clover’s mouth, searching, seeking, yearning for the taste of him beneath the aroma of tea and dumplings. The Captain lets out a chuckle as he playfully capitulates, allowing Ironwood to clamber into his lap as their lips do not part, as their lips never want to part. 

Clover sits on the edge of the bed like it’s the edge of the universe, where the maps tumble over into darkness and terra incognita. And James follows, inexorably drawn into that gravity as the brunette’s lips are a lifeline, an anchor, an everything. James is nothing if not determined, James is nothing if not determination itself, and soon he finally, finally have a taste of it - of the musk, of the scent of pine needles in the crisp, crestfallen snow, of blood and metal and of alpha, of _his_ alpha, James’s own to wreck and worship. 

As the brunette’s mouth travels steadily south, James cannot help but bury his face in his fluffy chestnut hair, inhaling the alpha scent he cannot get enough of while those infinitely talented lips caress the pale arch of his neck, while deft teeth skilfully, oh so skilfully undo each elaborate button of Ironwood’s uniform. James admires the skill, respects the patience, the boundless patience, but he does not have the patience or the meticulousness, or at least not anymore. A sharp tug of his fists, and Clover’s shirt rips and unravels as loudly and nonsensically as unfurled thunder. The brunette gasps at that, allowing the General to claim that delightful sound in a messy, heated open mouthed-kiss. 

There is a silent question as they both pant into the kiss, struggling to catch their breath as Clover’s hands tangle James’s beard, as the Atlesian’s fingers rest at the alpha’s waist. There is a silent question as the sweet smell of omega pheromones and promises of summer fruit spikes through the tent’s tight space, as slick all but leaks through the fabric of clothes onto Clover’s knee against which the General grinds increasingly insistently, increasingly desperately. 

“You are incredible,” Clover says, teal eyes adoring as strong hands peel remaining garment layers off, “you are truly one of a kind.”

James claims the compliment in a passionate kiss, his hands blindly mapping the alpha’s finally free length, appreciating the length and girth of it before gently angling it into himself, into the warm, dripping, tightness of himself. Clover utterly melts at that, and James can only watch in awe as the Captain’s usually cordial composure finally crumbles into oblivion, his head arching back beautifully as a volley of lustful moans escapes him.

“You’re so tight...” the brunette groans, wantonly devouring every exposed inch of Ironwood’s skin. 

There is an impossible pressure upon his clenched walls, stretching his entrance inexorably as he sinks down onto Clover’s sizable erection. There is a gravity that guides him down, letting the alpha’s wide member breach him always deeper, improbably deeper… the brunette’s soft lips are but encouraging, whispering sweet nothings like a mantra, his hands are but a caress, a tidal wave that adores every inch of smooth skin, that admires every surface of scarred tissue, tracing every line of brokenness because he does not pretend they do not exist, because he worships James’s strength not despite, but because they exist. Each caress brings the General closer to the edge, his touch-starved body wanting, craving, needing more, but he can control it, for now he can control the slow, deliberate pace as he rides Clover into the distant sunrise. 

Gradually, he finds the exact angle for the alpha’s massive erection to collide with that bundle of nerves that makes him see fleeting constellations. As Clover’s knot swells within the tightness of him, parting his slick hole even further, he can only hold on to the alpha’s shoulder for dear life, for control, for the weight of the world to remain in utter control, in utter balance atop their shoulders. For once, James can share the weight, for once, James is not alone, and he does not have to be alone, the fully erect limb entirely filling the void, entirely filling the loneliness within him. 

But his strong grip over the alpha’s shoulder touches the newly tied bandage around Clover’s arrow wound, and that draws red, and that draws a guttural moan from the brunette that sounds more like a snarl. There is a sudden glimmer in the Captain’s cloudy green eyes, a glimmer that’s as enticing as it is dangerous. This is the alpha’s territory, this is the alpha’s very own to claim, and no one should challenge him, no one should harm him without facing consequences. And consequences are as brutal as they are certain, strong hands seizing the omega’s hips and all but plopping him straight down onto his rock-hard member. 

James tries to press his face into the crook of Clover’s neck, stifling the cries coming out of him as the alpha buries himself to the knot within his body. But the omega cannot find anything to grasp onto, cannot find even a sliver of stability as he is lifted and slammed down again, a lone ship lost in the tempest at the mercy of the unleashed elements. Where there was gentleness, there is feral rage in Clover’s touch, where there was vulnerability, there is violence. 

Ironwood may be General of one of the largest armed forces on the surface of the known world, he might have been carrying the weight of the earth and the celestial vault above, but now he is but a puppet within the Captain’s grasp, he is but a human-sized toy for Clover to claim and control and ram into at a merciless pace until a world-shattering orgasm crests over James, and the weight of the world upon him is a long gone memory. 

Emitting a plaintive moan, the General is reduced to a boneless mess, his head thrown back, his hair in utter disarray. But Clover is there to hold him, to lower him into the bed before he can collapse and hurt himself. Clover is there to savagely throw him face first among the messed up sheets and already pry his butt cheeks apart again, molding the omega like clay to his own liking. When he slams back into James, the curve, the size, the knot of his considerable manhood are familiar, the shape reply imprinted into Ironwood’s memory, into the tight wetness of him. 

But this time around, the alpha’s pace is perfect clockwork, a perfect precision that’s too fast, too much for the unravelling omega to withstand, yet too slow, refusing to accelerate to grant James the sweet, sweet release his body craves all over again. He wants to beg, he want to move his hips back into Clover’s erection, but strong digits pin down his hip bones, leaving bruises on the pale, scarred skin, and that alone is enough to send him past the edge into the throes of another climax, his fingernails scrabbling for control, scrabbling for a grip over the bedsheets, his toes curling in pure pleasure as the blankets beneath him turn to clouds. 

Clover roars at that, but he does not slow down. He does not speed up either, still pounding precisely into the General whose walls are dripping with slick, whose hole is dripping loosely onto the bed. His pace is the only notion of time that remains to James’s overwhelmed mind, even the omega’s heartbeat pulsating erratically at his eardrums. He can only manage a series of weak whimpers as the alpha rips another orgasm out of him, then yet another. His mind is sinking, soaring, shattering, and soon his fingers are too weak to even grip the blankets, and his toes are so curled up that it hurts. 

That hurts and everything hurts, and the world hurts, too many sensations of swirling pleasure and pain assail his mind, and consciousness starts to fade within what’s left of him. However, Clover won’t give him a break just yet, instead roughly grasping the omega’s neck and angling it properly to capture his lips again in a sloppy, searing kiss. It is a mess of teeth and tongues, and the pressure of each finger around the General’s throat is too much, and he can’t breathe can’t move can’t think… The possessive tip of a tongue graces his cupid’s bow before travelling down the corner of his mouth, down his thick beard and angular jaw before pausing at his pulse point. 

Somewhere, somewhere far away at the back of James’s mind, something wonders if Clover is about to bite down, mark him, and make the General his. But the Captain’s relentless pounding pace is omnipresent, shattering that thought, shattering the omega’s mind, shattering the weight of the world as James finally succumbs to the darkness, unconsciousness mercifully embracing his mind. 

Clover keenly notices the tightness around his manhood as the omega’s hole clenches down from overstimulation, the rest of his body all but melting into the bed, clearly blissed out. Finally, finally Clover can flip him over and stare at those relaxed features now that he knows James won’t stare back, not when he’s out cold and lying limp at the alpha’s mercy. With a small smile, the brunette allows himself to lean down for a selfish, utterly selfish kiss onto Ironwood’s lax, pliant mouth, using his skillful tongue to part the unresponsive, kiss-swollen lips. 

He doesn’t know for how long he stays like that in pure self-indulgence, before he senses James weakly kissing back, and Clover’s scent spikes in excitement, in respect, in admiration. The omega may not be as experienced in the art of lovemaking as he is at the art of war, but he is strong and resilient, refusing to give up so easily, and the Dragon Emperor will be pleased with his Captain’s findings, with his new concubine…

There are few things that are as pleasurable as being awakened by a kiss, and for an instant James allows himself to bask in the warmth and the uncertainty, slowly taking in his surroundings that come back in brief bouts of details. Clover’s fingers mapping his beard, kneading the skin, Clover’s legs entangled with his. The crinkled bedsheets pressed against his back - the alpha must have flipped him while he was unconscious, and the mere thought of those strong arms easily flipping his limp body like a mere puppet is enough to cause James’s heart to race within his ribcage. 

Then Clover draws back to stare dreamily into deep cobalt eyes, and that lasts forever, and that should have lasted forever. The alpha allows himself a last, small peck to the centre of Ironwood’s mouth, before the lighting changes, and he parts the omega’s legs again to slip into the dripping wet, overused hole. With a broken cry, James’s eyes roll all the way back as soon as Clover buries himself balls deep within him again, long, lush black eyelashes batting weakly before fluttering closed. 

The General is beautiful like that, Clover thinks as he watches the Atlesian slipping back into a dead faint, tears cluttering his dark lashes like morning dew. Groaning in pleasure, it does not take long for the alpha to mount James’s throbbing hole in short, sharp thrusts until his own climax, filling the omega to the brim with his own seed.

Only then, as he lay utterly spent atop of the other man’s motionless body, does his job truly commence, after having dutifully checked his Emperor would enjoy his newest conquest. Obliviously rearranging James’s hair the way he’d have liked if he were still conscious and softly apologising with a kiss to that infinitely soft strand of raven hair on his forehead, Clover reaches out onto the many drawers by the bed, filing through secret and confidential papers until he finds what he was looking for.

* * *

“Welcome back to the world of the living, General.”

James blinks painfully, the bleak morning light is pain, his eyes are pure pain. He still lies in his own bed, but his behind is shamefully painful too. It takes his sight a few seconds to distinguish Clover standing in his tent in full armour, greeting him cordially while sorting through some papers. From outside, a distant sound of chaotic panic filters into the tent. But inside, a familiar burning scent reaches James’s nostrils, striking every nerve of him with dread.

“What are you doing?”

The omega tries to stir in his bed, but his hands and legs are bound. Fairly comfortably so, but tied up nonetheless.

“These are your heat suppressants, right?” the Captain answers while meticulously pouring all of the mixture into the fire of the oil lamp. “Oh, the marvels of Atlesian medicine, even blocking all of your omega pheromones. No wonder no one knew for sure. But now, it will likely be days, if not hours before your heat hits, and that won’t leave your poor sex-starved soldiers in this camp indifferent, I don’t think.”

James should never have let his guard down. He was selfish to want to alleviate his own loneliness, and now he would pay the price, and Atlas would pay the price...

“You got your own soldiers to shoot you with our arrows so I’d have to tend to your injuries. Why did you do that? What do you want from me?”

“I just hoped you would reconsider his Imperial Majesty’s offer, and travel back with me to his court in the Citadel for negotiations. Who knows, maybe he’ll give Atlas a generous peace in exchange for your hand as his concubine, or even his Empress. He is a merciful Emperor, and you would learn in no time how to satisfy him in bed - you have more potential than I expected, and I trust he will be thoroughly impressed.”

The General doesn’t have that much time, for if he tries to escape or return to his camp while in heat, chances are that he will be found, and treated less kindly than by a soldier like Clover striving to keep him non-pregnant and unmarked for his sovereign to claim.

“You can’t kidnap me in the middle of my own camp. My soldiers would -”

“Ignore you completely while they try to contain the maddened Megoliath, after I set their tent on fire. You have no choice now but to come with me and see the Emperor, although I wish you’d cooperate.”

James exhales deeply, an idea hatching in his mind. Perhaps cooperating would be best for the good of his own survival, and for the good of Atlas.

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a second part, and this will end with iron dragon's charms, so stay tuned :)


End file.
